I grew up in a small town where the elementary school was a ten-minute walk from my house and in an
age, not so long ago, when children could go home for lunch and find their mothers waiting.
At the time, I did not consider this a luxury , although today it certainly would be. I took
it for granted that mothers were the sandwich-makers, the finger-painting appreciators and the
homework monitors. I never questioned that this ambitious, intelligent woman, who had had a career
before I was born and would eventually return to a career, would spend almost every lunch hour
throughout my elementary school years just with me.I only knew that when the noon bell rang,
I would race breathlessly home. My mother would be standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down
at me with a look that suggested I was the only important thing she had on her mind. For this, I am
forever grateful.Some sounds bring it all back: the high-pitched squeal of my mother’s teakettle,
the rumble of the washing machine in the basement, the jangle of my dog’s license tags as she
bounded down the stairs to greet me. Our time together seemed devoid of the gerrymandered schedules
that now pervade my life.One lunchtime when I was in the third grade will stay with me always. I
had been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had painstakingly
rehearsed my lines with me. But no matter how easily I delivered them at home, as soon as I stepped
onstage, every word disappeared from my head.Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained that
she had written a narrator’s part to the play, and asked me to switch roles. Her words, kindly
delivered, still stung, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.I didn’t tell my mother
what had happened when I went home for lunch that day. But she sensed my unease, and instead of
suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to walk in the yard.It was a lovely spring
day and the rose vine on the trellis was turning green. Under the huge elm trees, we could see
yellow dandelions popping through the grass in bunches, as if a painter had touched our landscape
with dabs of gold.I watched my mother casually bend down by one of the clumps, I think I’m going
to dig up all these weeds, she said, yanking a blossom up by its roots. From now on, we’ll have
only roses in this garden.But I like dandelions, I protested. All flowers are beautiful even
dandelions.My mother looked at me seriously. Yes, every flower gives pleasure in its own way,
doesn’t it? She asked thoughtfully. I nodded, pleased that I had won her over . And that is true
of people too, she added. Not everyone can be a princess, but there is no shame in that.Relieved
that she had guessed my pain, I started to cry as I told her what had happened. She listened and
smiled reassuringly .But you will be a beautiful narrator, she said, reminding me of how much I
loved to read stories aloud to her, The narrator’s part is every bit as important as the part of
the princess.Over the next few weeks, with her constant encouragement, I learned to take pride in
the role. Lunchtimes were spent reading over my lines and talking about what I would wear.Backstage
the night of the performance, I felt nervous. A few minutes before the play, my teacher came over
to me. Your mother asked me to give this to you, she said, handing me a dandelion. Its edges were
already beginning to curl and it flopped lazily from its stem. But just looking at it, knowing my
mother was out there and thinking of our lunchtime talk, made me proud.After the play, I took home
the flower I had stuffed in the apron of my costume. My mother pressed it between two sheets of
paper toweling in a dictionary, laughing as she did it that we were perhaps the only people who
would press such a sorry-looking weed.I often look back on our lunchtimes together, bathed in the
soft midday light. They were the commas in my childhood, the pauses that told me life is not
savored in pre-measured increments , but in the sum of daily rituals and small pleasures we
casually share with loved ones. Over peanut-butter sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies, I learned
that love, first and foremost, means being there for the little things.A few months ago, my mother
came to visit. I took off a day from work and treated her to lunch. The restaurant bustled with
noontime activity as business people made deals and glanced at their watches. In the middle of all
this sat my mother, now retired, and I. From her face I could see that she relished the pace of the
work world.Mom, you must have been terribly bored staying at home when I was a child, I said.Bored?
Housework is boring. But you were never boring.I didn’t believe her so I pressed. Surely children
are not as stimulating as a career.A career is stimulating, she said. I’m glad I had one. But a
career is like an open balloon. It remains inflated only as long as you keep pumping. A child is a
seed. You water it. You care for it the best you can. And then it grows all by itself into a
beautiful flower.